by Sylvia Nobel
“So, did the girls ever see each other again after Dayln was sent away?”
“I don’t know. But according to Edna, that’s Bitsy’s aunt you know, supposedly Dayln wrote to Bitsy every week pleading for forgiveness and begging her to come and see her.”
“Did she?”
“I think Edna told me that she and another girl did go visit her once...but, honey, that was a long time ago and I can’t be sure.”
The old cuckoo clock warbled one o’clock and I was surprised to realize an hour had passed. Overcome with the urgent need to begin phase two of my sleuthing in Weaverville, I quickly summed up the discussion. When I recounted Fran Orcutt’s cryptic disclosure Ida looked blank, but when I repeated the doctor’s assertion that Dayln may have deliberately set the fire at the asylum, her face crumpled in dismay. “That was never proven, but I know how that rumor got started.”
The hollow tone of her voice caught my interest.
“I’m listening.”
“Did I already tell you that Minnie’s cousin, Rose, worked as an attendant at that place?”
“No.”
“Because I didn’t trust Miles Orcutt one damn whit, I paid Rose extra to keep an eye on things for me. Right before the fire, she told me Dayln was becoming more uncontrollable by the day and vowing that she was going to escape—one way or the other.”
That sounded pretty ominous. “Was Rose on duty the night of the fire?”
Her pained expression conveyed profound sorrow. “She said it was the most terrible experience of her life. All the smoke and flames, the children screaming...” She paused to clear her throat. “Rose was badly burned trying to save some of the kids and barely escaped with her own life. By the time help arrived, well, it was too late. But she did tell the authorities a strange story.”
My pulse skyrocketed. “What was that?”
There was a slight hesitation and her dubious expression seemed to disavow her next words. “She claimed one of the children did not die.”
It was difficult to control the tremor in my voice. “But how is that possible? I thought the bodies of all the patients were accounted for.”
“So they said. But to her last breath, Rose insisted that she saw a girl, her face bloody and blackened, run from the flames and vanish into the night.”
Chapter 25
Fueled by Ida’s astounding revelation, my thoughts hop-scotched all over the map, while a keen sense of certainty permeated down to my bone marrow. This was it. I was about to hit pay dirt. My throat tumbleweed-dry, my insides burning with nervous energy, I stomped on the accelerator and sped towards Weaverville along a nearly deserted road festooned with black-eyed Susans nodding encouragement at me. As I wound through tawny hills crowned with limestone outcroppings and honeycombed with scores of abandoned mine shafts, I concluded that my high-strung state was to blame for making it appear as if the yawning cavities perched above rusty skirts of tailings looked like open mouths waiting to swallow some unsuspecting hiker.
“Settle down,” I said aloud, trying to gather my outlandish speculations into some sort of logical order. Who should I believe? Dr. Orcutt insisted there had been twenty-eight patients and twenty-eight bodies. Ida had further qualified her remarks by stating that the authorities explained away Rose’s questionable allegation when they discovered another attendant huddled under a bush not far from where she’d seen the figure disappear. But what if the woman’s eyes had not been playing tricks on her? Who had she seen running away and if so, how had the body count matched the exact number of patients?
The remarkable premise beginning to emerge from the far regions of my mind made my blood surge with excitement, but at the same time, a feeling of unease dogged me like a second shadow as Rita Morgan’s final warning to leave the secrets buried, drummed in my head. And here I was poised to unearth them.
The road plunged downward and flattened out into a shimmering slate ribbon that stretched away to the distant mountains where it finally evaporated into the magnificent isolation of the sun-baked desert. I cranked the air-conditioning higher, slowed the car, and kept my eyes peeled for the turn-off. Whitey was right, if I hadn’t been paying close attention I’d have missed the time worn sign directing me to turn right.
I swung onto a dusty, mesquite-shrouded road and climbed back into gentle hills, maneuvering as best I could around deep mud puddles left over from last night’s storm. Other than a few hawks lazily riding the thermals and a couple of head of scrawny white-faced cattle camped out by a rusted water tank, there didn’t appear to be another living creature in sight.
Rounding a sharp curve, I spotted the roofless, windowless remains of several crumbling adobe structures literally melting into the earth. This had to be Weaverville. I stopped the car, rolled down the window and snapped pictures, thinking how sad it was that these sagging tributes to the past were the final remnants of a once prosperous mining town.
I passed another handful of structures in the process of being reclaimed by the desert before the road abruptly ended at a rusty gate that heralded the entrance to the object of my quest—the old cemetery.
After parking the car in the tentative shade of a scraggly tree, I got out to survey my surroundings. Erratic gusts of wind, most likely a prelude to the approaching storm whispered through knee-high gamma grass and hummed an eerie little tune along the crooked barbed wire fence. I pushed open the squeaky gate and then paused to absorb the somber atmosphere of the silent hills standing guard over the cluster of weed-choked grave markers. Which one would offer up the final piece of this bizarre puzzle?
I couldn’t dream up a more superbly spooky setting if I tried. And I could see it in print now. Before the ambiance got away from me, I jotted several thoughts on my notepad and then set out to discover why Fran Orcutt had directed me to this forlorn place. I still didn’t have clue one as to what I was supposed to find as I roamed among crumbling concrete slabs and crooked wooden crosses.
With the exception of lovingly tended shrines and flower-draped headstones bearing mostly Hispanic names, many others were neglected—hidden among overgrown mesquite, the hand scrawled testimony of the forgotten souls beneath rendered undecipherable by the inexorable march of time. It was as if they had never existed and it left me with a profound sense of sadness.
After ten or fifteen fruitless minutes of rooting around and kneeling in the thorn-filled weeds frustration began to rankle me. None of these names meant anything to me. So, what was it? What was I supposed to find?
More puzzled than ever, I rose and my eyes strayed to a jumble of headstones perched on the crest of one grassy knoll. I tramped to the top and came to an area enclosed by a sturdy wrought iron fence. Here the tombstones were larger, the graves well tended. And one of them looked quite fresh. I moved closer, nodding ruefully. Of course. This would be the Morgan family plot. It was not surprising in the least that their remains resided on the prime piece of real estate, lording over the rest of the townsfolk, arrogant even in death.
Confident that I was finally on the right track, I studied the smooth marble headstone that marked the final resting-place for the dastardly Grady Morgan. He’d been dead a mere three weeks. Okay. That told me nothing new. I moved on, reading every name, every date on each stone. They were all here underneath these melancholy monuments to mortality: the hapless Seth, and beside him, the dynamic Hannah who must be executing cartwheels in the grave to know her great-granddaughter was fraternizing with a Claypool. Jeb Morgan’s intricately carved headstone was impressive indeed and adjacent to it, a smaller one bore the name of Grady’s brother, Oliver, who had died way too young. There were other children, aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone was here—with one glaring exception. Dayln Morgan’s grave was not among them. Was this the rationale for Fran Orcutt’s ambiguous directive?
For no discernible reason I suddenly felt edgy and slid a wary eye behind me. Nothing. Nothing met my searching eyes except the empty expanse of sand, rock and cactus. But the ju
mpiness persisted. What was it about graveyards that fired the imagination and yet weighed heavily on the spirit? Was it the sobering knowledge that these bone depositories represented the final destiny for all of us?
Whatever, a distinct sensation of apprehension blanketed me as I resumed my search. I couldn’t help but think that if Tally knew I had come to this godforsaken place alone, he’d have a king-sized hissy fit and declare my actions to be bullheaded and foolhardy. And he’d be right. Oh, well, he’d never have to find out, and besides, lots of people knew I was here.
I tramped around for another ten minutes or so before stumbling upon a solitary gravestone tucked away in a desolate corner of the cemetery. Kneeling, I parted the thatch of weeds and inhaled a sharp breath at the name etched on the simple granite marker: Dayln Morgan.
This was a cruel and deliberate act, no doubt ordered by Grady himself. Was it because she had disgraced the family name by first attempting to kill him, or because he suspected she’d set the asylum fire? Those were the obvious reasons, but something told me there had to be more to this than met the eye. What else could this girl have done to deserve the fate of being banished for eternity from the bosom of her family, her memory forever tarnished, desecrated?
At the same time, I could not restrain the staggering possibility that now jumped to the forefront. Call me nuts, but what if Minnie’s cousin had been right? What if Dayln Morgan really had escaped death that night? The mere thought gave me one of those anxious little stomach twinges. What if...what if she was Grady’s tormentor? And if he’d suspected as much, why had he kept silent? Where had she been all these years and what had compelled her to return home after a twenty-year absence? And, I thought, studying the faded name on the stone, if by some wild stretch of the imagination this was so, then who was buried in her grave?
I rose to my feet still not sure I’d resolved anything. With no clear plan in mind, I began to wander aimlessly among the remaining graves, following intermittent cloud shadows skipping across the ground. I found nothing of significance. Admitting defeat, I hiked back up the hill past the Morgan family gravesites and had just started down the path towards my car when I noticed a smaller wrought-iron enclosure sheltered beneath a stand of wind-tossed willows
I stepped inside and spotted a tiny white marker almost hidden in the weeds. When I leaned down to read it, surprise rushed through me. Baby Morgan. It listed the month and year. A few feet away, I found another marker. Baby Morgan. My breathing accelerated. What a dummy I was! Fran Orcutt hadn’t been talking about Audrey. She had meant for me to visit the graves of Rita Morgan’s unborn babies. But why?
On my knees now, I plowed through the tangle of dry grass and found a third grave. How tragic. My heart went hollow with pity when I found one last grave marker fallen over and encrusted with dirt, the date of death almost indiscernible. I set it upright, wet one finger and rubbed the plastic nameplate. When the first few letters materialized, a chill prickled the back of my neck. I wiped away the remaining dirt. August. The baby died in August. Wait a minute. How was it possible…?
The distinct crunch of a footfall from behind wrenched my gut with cold horror. Half rising, I spun around in time to catch a brief glimpse of masculine scuffed boots and blue jeans before something coarse, like burlap, dropped over my head. Strong arms encircled my waist and blind panic banished all reason when I was pulled roughly against someone. “Stop! Let go of me,” I shouted, barely recognizing my own muffled voice as I struggled against my assailant.
The man’s grip tightened painfully and I clawed at the smothering fabric until he pinned my arms to my side. I don’t know which was worse. The terror of suffocation or the sickening awareness of my dire predicament when I felt his fingers fumbling at my breasts and heard his menacing chuckle close to my ear. “Well, look who we got here.”
At first, I balked at the inevitable, refusing to admit I recognized the voice, but an icy sword of terror slashed through me when Archie Lawton growled, “Guess you’re not such hot shit now, are you, Miss smart-ass reporter?”
Jesus H. Christ! I tried to lunge away, but his grip was like iron. I kicked wildly and screamed. If only I could see. If only I could get a full breath. Fighting for air and close to hysteria, I searched the pockets of my brain, trying to remember the rules—any rule from my self-defense class. If your life is threatened, the instructor had warned, don’t anger your attacker. Better to relax and submit. No way, Jose. I’d rather die.
Fury and revulsion re-energized me. I stomped one sneaker down hard on his booted instep, but his malicious laugh confirmed my ineffectiveness. Okay, next tactic. I allowed my knees to collapse and then propelled myself upward hoping to land a knock out blow under his chin. I missed, but did manage to unbalance him. We both crashed to the ground in a thrashing tangle of arms and legs. I lashed out and apparently landed a sensitive kick because his slackened grip was accompanied by a howl of pain.
But triumph was fleeting. “You stupid bitch!” He landed a blow on my cheek with such thundering force, my ears rang and a profusion of stars exploded before my eyes. The searing pain left me stunned and disoriented, my stomach quaking with sudden nausea. I felt him tugging my blouse up and I stiffened with dread at the sensation of sharp metal sliding against my bare midriff.
“You better be nice,” Archie panted, “or I’ll cut you into a thousand pieces and leave you for the coyotes.”
Beyond scared at that point, I felt numb. Powerless. Oddly disconnected from myself. I was doomed. Destined to wind up a sensational headline in my own newspaper.
He rolled me onto my stomach and I could do little but flail weakly as he bound my wrists. When he flipped me over and straddled me, hope faded when I felt the prominent proof of his evil intent. “Oh, baby doll, you don’t know how much I’ve been waiting for this.”
Dear God, please don’t let this happen.
He was fumbling with my belt buckle when, unbelievably, I heard a harsh voice shouting from some distance away, “Get off her, you dumb shit!”
I held my breath, hope surging through my veins. Was it friend or foe?
Running footsteps, a clatter of stones near my head and a dull thud. “Shithouse mouse!” Archie yelped, his grip loosening abruptly. “I was just having a little fun.”
The rising wind rustled the grass beneath my head and snatched away most of the newcomer’s reply with the exception of “...has to look like an accident.”
My heart convulsed. Definitely not friend. “Keep her still,” came the gruff, muted command.
Why did I have the impression the second man was disguising his voice? I couldn’t see to identify him, so why bother?
Fear carved away at my senses when I felt someone’s full weight pressing down, immobilizing me. “The sheriff knows I’m here,” I gasped through the smothering fabric, “you’ll never get away with...”
Something solid and smooth, like the sole of a shoe pressed hard on my throat, choking off my words. I flinched at a sharp sting in my upper arm. What was happening?
“Get the truck,” came the curt order and I heard footsteps vanish into the distance.
“Too bad you sided with that bitch imposter,” the stranger’s taunting voice crooned close to my ear, “she’s gonna be next.”
Did I recognize that silky tone? Before I could contemplate it further, a tranquil glow spread through me, paralyzing my arms and legs. Oh, God! What had he given me?
He was whispering in my ear, but his voice sounded far away and I could make no sense of what he was saying. Something about me interfering with destiny? Desperately, I tried to fight the overwhelming dizziness but my eyelids fluttered shut and I followed a maze of brightly colored lights spiraling down into blackness.
Chapter 26
Heat on my face. A strange scarlet-orange light glowing against my closed eyelids. The brilliance faded to gray. Cooler air now. More comfortable. Now the red color again. More heat. My sluggish brain endeavored to explain the sensation of
extreme lethargy anchoring my limbs and yet I was floating, weightless.
Little by little the dreamy haze began to clear and cognizant thoughts nudged at me bringing bits and pieces of disjointed memories. I needed to open my eyes, but my lids were too massive. Perhaps I’d sleep some more.
I drifted again for an indeterminate amount of time, but something, some innate sense of urgency warned me that it was monumentally important that I wake up. All at once, wispy visions of Weaverville emerged from the foggy corridors of my mind. The grave markers. Something about the grave markers. The thought, still indistinct, flitted about like a panicked moth at a window and then vanished. What was it? What was I trying to remember?
Sleepy. Too sleepy to care. I don’t know how long I dozed before the tortured nightmare of my blind scuffle with Archie Lawton finally roused me from my stupor enough to recall the arrival of his unidentified accomplice and then...what?
“Screee. Click, click. Screee.” A strange sound. And close. Then silence. Penetrating silence. No, there it was again. Louder this time followed by a low raspy hiss. Mild apprehension grazed my semi-conscious mind. A noise like that certainly didn’t belong here in my bedroom. And why did it seem as if it was coming from somewhere below me?
I forced my eyelids open only to shut them against the painful assault of sunlight. Oh? So, I wasn’t home in bed. I was outside. And I was lying flat on my back. Lying on something hard and very uncomfortable. My mind whipsawed, striving for some logical explanation. Either I was dreaming or this was the mother of all hallucinations complete with a searing headache, chalk-dry mouth and— why did my tongue feel a mile thick?
I cracked my eyes open again and squinted up at a rectangular patch of blue sky framed by wooden slats. I blinked a couple of times and stared at a cloud gliding into the sun’s path. Okay, that explained the intermittent visions of light and shadow, but the primary question loomed large. Where was I?